Thomas Sutcliffe: What I learned during my time in the ranks

It wasn't entirely clear, from the weekend's reports on Quentin Davies' proposal that more comprehensive school children should be encouraged to sign up for the cadet corps, exactly what the initiative was meant to achieve. Mr Davies himself seems to think that it is a hearts-and-minds operation, improving attitudes towards the armed forces. A spokesman for the National Association of Headteachers hinted that it might be about supplying a sense of discipline and order to teenagers whose home life is generally as regimented as a bad day in Basra.

As for Gordon Brown himself, identified as being "very, very keen on the opportunities represented by cadet forces", it was not clear what the source of his enthusiasm was, other than a desperation to look as if he is doing something useful.

The news got me thinking, anyway, about my own (occasional) armed service – as an unwilling member of my school's cadet force. The unwillingness is important, I think. I didn't want to join and, as soon as it was permissible, I de-mobilised, reading novels having a much greater attraction for me than waterproofing my webbing with Blanco – a soapy green substance which would acquire the required patina only after being vigorously brushed for about six hours.

But I couldn't honestly say that that compulsory enlistment was without its revelations – or that some of the lessons learned did not chime with the civilian ambitions of those putting the case for the cadet force.

Take the goal of "developing greater affiliation with the armed forces". One of the things that surprised me was that the soldiers we encountered were much wittier than my bookish prejudices had allowed for. Indeed, they were often very funny indeed, deploying an insubordinate humour in a way that was deeply gratifying to anyone trapped in an institution, and yet doing it with a sharp understanding of where the joke needed to stop. I have never since been able to share the knee-jerk contempt for the intelligence of ordinary soldiers which you sometimes encounter in liberal circles.

As for discipline, we scarcely had a deficit of that. As a boarder, virtually every minute of my day was regulated anyway. But I confess that I wasn't quite prepared for just how thrilling drill could be, when it actually worked. This was something of an ambiguous lesson: if an activity this dumb and pointless could be so compelling what price independent judgement? Indeed, I would go so far as to say that you won't ever fully understand the seductive power of fascism until you've marched behind a military band. But maybe there's an upside. Perhaps young people deprived from birth of external command might find a kind of morality in learning to walk in step with others.

And for those anxious about giving weapons training to teenagers at a time of rising gun crime, all I can say is that four years of CCF service comprehensively erased the glamour of the gun for me. Firing them was fine – we were all up for that and looked forward to the day when we would finally be allowed to unleash a burst from a Bren gun. But cleaning them was very dull – not to mention listening to the exhaustive safety briefing that preceded every trip to the firing range. I cannot any longer remember how to dismantle the firing mechanism of a .303 rifle, as I once could, but I still know that you never point one at anybody, loaded or not. That must be in line with current government policy. I'm still not sure that it is a good idea exactly – but it is a much less bad one than I first assumed.

Don't play it again, Madonna

Reports that Madonna has been pitching a remake of Casablanca to Hollywood studios (she plays Ilsa Lund, Iraq plays Morocco) emerged too close to April Fool's Day for comfort. But you can see that from her perspective it might make a kind of sense.

In all of Madonna's previous films, her self-advertising celebrity made plausible characterisation quite impossible. The solution? Find a film that is even more famous than you are and see if your acting looks any better.

Some commentators have reacted to this idea as if it is blasphemous. I think it is irresistibly promising, particularly if Guy Ritchie is hired to take Michael Curtiz's place. If this turkey doesn't leave the ground and they're not on it, I think we will regret it.

* I went off to the theatre last Saturday morning – for four of Mark Ravenhill's new plays in his series Shoot/Get Treasure/Repeat – a kind of theatrical cluster bomb consisting of 16 explosive playlets dispersed all across London.

The ones I saw were at the National Theatre and started at 10am – drawing a very respectable audience, all of whom seemed quite pleased with themselves at getting some culture under their belt so early in the weekend.

And I don't think I'm imagining it when I say that the audience was much more attentive and energised than usual. There was no sense of the First Act Slump – which usually strikes in evening performances shortly after the lights have gone down and your hypothalamus says: "Oh, you've finally stopped rushing around – it must be time for a nap."

Instead, everyone was fresh for the work, even if the work happened to be listening to Harriet Walter explain her problems with caffeine intolerance.